


Alone

by elisetales



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Bullying, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-06 08:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisetales/pseuds/elisetales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set directly after the cafeteria scene on page 49!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I should apologize for this; I'm a little rusty! For Em, who wanted Phobos/Deimos ALONE TIEM.

It was late by the time Deimos got back to the room. He'd been avoiding the inevitable confrontation for hours, waiting it out until Phobos was likely asleep, but he needn't have bothered: the thin sliver of light spilling from underneath the door sent a little thrill of nervousness through him and he took a steadying breath before he keyed himself in, deciding it was now or never.

"Where the _hell_ have you been?" Phobos shot to his feet the moment the door hissed closed behind Deimos, a fierce glare on his face, a wad of bloodied tissues pressed to his nose. Deimos shrugged out of his jacket and threw it on the top bunk, stood there silent.

"I asked you a question!" Phobos snapped, all blond hair and pent-up rage, looming over Deimos now with his hands balled at his sides. He shoved Deimos' shoulder when he wouldn't answer him—when Deimos refused to react to that either, just stumbled a bit but stood his ground, Phobos' face turned dark and he spat, "You know what? Never mind, I forgot you're too _stupid_ to talk. You know he broke my nose, don't you?" he went on, like Deimos should feel as outraged as he looked. "Why didn't you do something about it? Honestly, Deimos, you're so fucking useless; it's no wonder we're still at the bottom and everyone's laughing at us behind our backs—ugh! If only I hadn't been lumped with _you_  then it'd be me working on that new engine configuration, not _him_..."

Deimos let out a little 'Tch!' of annoyance and turned his back to him, took to the ladder and started to hoist himself up onto his bunk. He'd heard it all before, Phobos always blaming him for his own failures and mediocrity, and Deimos was tired of it, tired of listening to it and tired of _him_.

Phobos let out a low growl behind him, hating to be ignored, and added with a drawling sneer, "I'm glad he's in the brig, you know. He deserves it. I hope he's still stuck in there when we get boarded and the Colterons redecorate the place with his guts. You've heard what they do to prisoners haven't y—"

Deimos was down from the ladder and in his face before he'd even had a chance to finish, Phobos letting out a yelp of surprise and staggering back, flinching away from him and bringing an arm up to shield his face. Deimos leveled a warning glare at him, daring him to go on, to say something else about Cain, the one topic Deimos refused to let him broach, ever.

Phobos paled and visibly swallowed, afraid now, and stammered, "I-I'm sorry, alright? Deimos, stop looking at me like that!" he demanded when Deimos wouldn't back off.

Deimos raised an eyebrow in question and Phobos let out a weak laugh, said, "You know what I mean. I-I hate it when you look at me like you want to cut my throat just to shut me up."

Deimos let up on him then, satisfied he'd put him in his place for now, and stood back, giving him his space. Phobos stared down at the floor and looked sheepish, sniffling and dabbing at his nose. "It really hurts," he said thickly, his shoulders sagging. He looked pathetic like this, small; all the frailty and weakness beneath that loud facade finally laid bare. 

Deimos frowned at him but stepped closer, took Phobos' wrist and dragged the hand holding the bloodied tissues away from his face. It looked like it hurt. There was blood crusted under his nose and chin; most of the swelling had gone down but the bruising was worse, black and blue and spread out across his nose and under his eyes.

Phobos pouted and wouldn't meet his gaze. "How bad is it?" he grumbled.

Deimos shrugged but tugged at his wrist, gesturing to the head, silently offering to help Phobos clean himself up, to make it up between them so at least it wouldn't be hell during simulation tomorrow. He made a mental note not to let Phobos look in the mirror, though; knew his navigator was vain enough to have a meltdown at the sight of his own broken face, had probably never seen so much as a scratch on it before today.

"Deimos, wait."

Deimos paused and glanced over his shoulder at him. Phobos was giving him that look again, the one that usually preceded him doing something stupid, and sure enough, a moment later Phobos fell against him, gathering Deimos' smaller frame up against his body and squeezing the air out of his lungs. "Sorry," he said again, and sounded like he meant it this time. "You just make me so angry sometimes. I wish you'd talk to me. I wish we could talk to each other. I feel so alone when I'm with you."

Deimos awkwardly patted him on the back before he started to wriggle out from under him, breathless now and hot in the face. Phobos let him go and looked down at him from under lowered lashes, chewing on his lip. "It's okay, though," he mumbled. "I know you can't. Come on, then." He put his hand in Deimos' again, twisting their fingers together, and let himself be lead to the bathroom.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Phobos is incredibly unpleasant but we love him anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phobos/Deimos snuggletime for Em.

"Deimos, are you awake?" Phobos whispered into the darkness. When nothing answered him but silence, he lifted a leg and toed the springs above his head, giving Deimos' mattress a sharp couple jabs, hoping to jolt him awake if he wasn't already.

Still nothing.

Phobos let out a hiss of breath and kicked at the mattress this time, so hard the bed-frame shook, and sat up on his elbows. "Deimos, tap once if you're awake," he gritted with a flash of annoyance, irritated at having to run around in circles like this just to communicate with his fighter, even if he knew it wasn't really Deimos' fault he couldn't speak; that he wasn't like everyone else.

A couple seconds passed and there was a soft tap on the wall. Phobos released a breath, some of the tightness in his chest subsiding, and said, "Yeah, I can't sleep either. Can't stop tossing and turning. Is it just me, or is it freezing in here?" Deimos didn't answer him and so Phobos swallowed and went on, "I can't relax knowing they're out there, anyway. Watching us. They could strike at any time, you know," he continued, trying not to sound as scared as he felt. "They could blow the whole ship up while we're sleeping and we wouldn't even know about it. We'll just be bits and pieces," he added grimly. "Arms and legs and torsos and _guts_ , floating around in space..."

His mouth was dry as cotton-wool now, his fingers and limbs trembling, panic unfurling inside his chest once more. Briefly he wondered whether he'd said too much to Deimos, though he fast reminded himself it didn't matter what Deimos thought about anything. He was just a fighter, and besides: he hardly ever uttered a word. Phobos was sure his own words, every little secret and shameful fear he'd ever uttered to Deimos in the sanctuary of their own room, wouldn't be thrown back in his face, repeated or used against him like a weapon. Not by him. 

There was a slight rustling from above, the mattress springs creaking, and Phobos bit his lip, said, "I don't mean to scare you, I'm just being realistic. You heard the commanders—did it sound to you like they think we'll make it? We're pretty much fucked at this point, and at least you and I can admit it." He cleared his throat then inquired, "Are you alright?" He asked because he wanted Deimos to tell him no, he _wasn't_ ; to give Phobos an excuse to take control of it, sort them both out and make everything alright again.

But Deimos just tapped the wall again, once for yes, and Phobos almost smiled as a small surge of affection for his quiet little fighter welled up in him. It was strong enough to cause him to momentarily forget himself, though, because shortly afterward he said, "Listen, do you want to lie together for a bit?"

Deimos was silent again; Phobos couldn't even hear him breathe. "I'm not going to do anything. I mean, I'm not going to touch you. Not like that," Phobos quickly added once he realized how he sounded, trying not to make it seem as if he cared too much whether or not Deimos said no to him.

He pressed his lips together, face throbbing with heat as he listened to the soft rush of air whistle through the vents, and Deimos' silence. He did care. And not because he wanted something Deimos wouldn't give. He knew he'd be lying to himself if he tried to pretend he hadn't thought about it, because he had—when Deimos undressed in front of him, or when he was so close Phobos could feel the heat of his body when they shared the shower-room in the evenings.

But it wasn't that. Everyone knew Abel and that grody little fighter of his were screwing—even if there was no way to successfully prove it in the hopes of getting Abel and his ego taken down a notch or two—and Phobos didn't want to be anything like _Abel_ , wanted no part in anything which had the potential to ruin his career before it had even begun. It was that Phobos had always felt greater safety in numbers, had found a similar comfort with Porthos back at Academy, and even if it made little sense to him now, part of Phobos was convinced that if they huddled together they'd have a better chance of making it safely through the night.

His breath caught when, after a few long moments of awkward silence, Deimos finally tapped once at the wall. Phobos didn't waste time getting out of bed, throwing off his blankets and hauling himself up the ladder, planting a knee on the mattress once he reached the top bunk and snapping at Deimos to move over. It wasn't really necessary: Deimos was small enough that there was plenty of space for Phobos to curl up next to him with room to spare; but he liked telling Deimos what to do, it was easy, and Deimos didn't seem to mind listening.

He lifted the corner of the coverlet and slipped in next to him, his heart pounding a little in his chest, Deimos so warm and soft beside him, half-dressed with his back to him and facing the wall. Phobos pushed up behind him, bold like Deimos expected of him, and lightly brushed along his arm with his fingertips, Deimos' skin hot beneath his touch.

Deimos surprised him by grasping his fingers tight and dragging his arm across his chest, pulling Phobos flush against his back and curling into a little ball, burrowed under the blankets, his breathing calm and even, like he wasn't phased by this at all. Phobos let out a slow breath and let his head fall to the pillows, eyes wide open and unblinking as he tried to ignore the way Deimos' ass was pressed to his crotch.

" _Ya chuvstvuyu tebya tryaset. Zasnut_ ," Deimos murmured after a minute or two, and Phobos jumped, startled by the sepulchral rasp of Deimos' voice, always so unnerved by the unnatural sound of it.

"What did you say?" he demanded, lifting his head off the pillows, Deimos' soft hair tickling his still-bruised nose. "Speak English if you're going to talk, Deimos. You know I can't understand you."

But Deimos wouldn't say anything else, just coughed a little—so that Phobos had to wonder whether it had actually hurt him to speak—and let his cold foot slip between Phobos' bare legs, his soft breathing slowly evening out until it was evident he was asleep. Phobos laid awake for a long while after that and just listened to him breathe, savoring the feeling of a warm body in his arms and the most peace he'd felt in weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Em, part 3 will be that other thing you wanted. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Translation:**
> 
>  
> 
> _"Ya chuvstvuyu tebya tryaset. Zasnut" = "I can feel you shaking. Go to sleep."_


	3. Toxic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Em, because I promised her awkward/bad-at-sex Phobos. Em, I can't possibly repay you for all the awesome things you've given me, but please take this paltry offering and don't think too badly of me after you've read it! 
> 
> Warnings for violence, blood, and physical/verbal abuse ~~and lots of tears~~.

Deimos returned to their room early that night, hadn't wanted to hang around too long in the rec room watching Cain and Abel fail at being even remotely discreet, the pair of them hanging all over each other while Cain tried to teach Abel how to win on one of the old pinball machines, Cain's fingers never straying too long from Abel's wrist and a permanent blush staining Abel's pretty face.

Phobos was sitting up in bed when the door slid open, hair tied haphazardly from his scowling face, his tablet propped up on his lap as he tapped aggressively at the screen. For once he had nothing to say upon Deimos' return, didn't utter a single word, not even to bitch at him for being back late, or early, or even just back at all.

Deimos didn't mind so much, didn't want to acknowledge him either, not when he was still pissed and nursing a bruise from earlier when Phobos had grown frustrated with him after training, where yet again they'd failed to score higher than Reliant. Phobos had pinched Deimos viciously in the side when the lieutenant had given them their stats, hadn't let go either until he'd managed to wrench a hiss of pain out of him.

Deimos guessed they were fighting again, whether it was all about today's training or something else he wasn't quite sure, but he wouldn't be the one to put things right this time; refused to crawl into bed beside Phobos tonight no matter how much he hated sleeping alone. They both did.

Phobos couldn't contain himself for long, though, letting out a loud huff of annoyance when Deimos started to undress and sniping, "Can you do that somewhere else? I don't even want to look at you."

Deimos ignored him, though he felt his face grow hot with Phobos' disapproving glare on his back, always picking out every little flaw on him, gawking at his scars and demanding to know how'd got each one, always looking so disgusted at the sight of him when he thought Deimos couldn't see.

"Deimos!" Phobos barked, when Deimos undid the buckle on his pants and let them drop to his feet. He heard the bed creak and felt Phobos' presence behind him, the magnitude of his anger, the air around them seeming to thrum with it. "Are you deaf now as well as mute?" he said through his teeth, his voice trembling with rage.

Deimos wanted to put his hands around the little bitch's throat at that, strangle the poison out of him, shut him up once and for all, but he wouldn't; knew that if he ever put his hands on him then Phobos wouldn't get back up again.

Instead he kept quiet, forced himself to bury his own temper, and swung around, avoiding Phobos' furious glare as he hoisted himself up onto the ladder. He started to pull himself up, planning on getting into bed and throwing the covers up over his head, making himself as small as possible while he sought shelter from the storm of Phobos' rage, when suddenly Phobos' hand was on his arm, cold and brutal and yanking him down.

Deimos acted on instinct first, couldn't think anymore when Phobos screamed at him and dug his fingernails into his flesh. Phobos was on the floor and under him in seconds, Deimos' forearm at his throat, cutting off his oxygen. Phobos didn't struggle once he'd been overpowered, didn't even move, and it wasn't until the red haze started to clear that Deimos noticed he was crying, pale face blotchy and red and tear-stained.

Deimos eased the pressure around his throat and glared down at him, furious and demanding an explanation. Phobos must have seen the question in his eyes because he let out a choked sob and gasped, "I _hate_ you..."

Deimos didn't know what the fuck he was on about this time, what he could possibly have done to deserve the hate, though he knew Phobos' tears could be due to only one of two things: that they were still ranked bottom, and Phobos blamed Deimos for all of it; or something had happened with that big, cold-eyed navigator he was always joined at the hip with, and somehow that had come to be Deimos' fault too.

"You did it, didn't you?" Phobos sniffled, limp and full of defeat now. "I couldn't find him tonight. Couldn't find _you_. I know he looks at you, Deimos. He's always looking at you. You were together, weren't you? God, don't you ever get tired of being a _slut_?" he spat, suddenly full of rage again. "Is it because Cain doesn't want to fuck you anymore?"

Deimos hit him. He'd never hit one of his navigators before, had always managed to restrain himself with Phobos, even when Phobos hit him first; but he was tired now, sick of the sight of him, sick of being blamed for everything; sick of the accusations and sick of having Cain thrown back in his face, all because Phobos thought he knew something when he didn't know shit.

Phobos' head cracked violently to the side and he let out a low moan, coughing and crumpling in on himself, crying pathetically as blood and spittle dribbled down his chin. He didn't even try to fight back, just laid there weak and broken and took it, like all the fight had finally been slapped out of him.

Deimos pushed the guilt down and took Phobos' chin, forced him to meet his eyes. "I _didn't_." It hurt to say it, hurt to speak, but Phobos had left him no choice. This is what he'd wanted from the start, what he'd been fishing for, and he always got his way in the end.

Phobos stared at him then, eyes big and wet and blinking, and took a gulping breath. "You're lying."

"No."

"He still wants you."

Deimos didn't say anything else, left it up to Phobos to somehow make that his fault too, and shrugged, sat back.

A few moments passed before Phobos whispered, "You wouldn't?"

" _No_."

"Why?"

Deimos shook his head at him, said, "I don't want it." Like he'd ever let Porthos anywhere near him just because he'd looked. He'd spent enough time around both of them to know Porthos thought he was trash, thought they were all trash, and maybe he was into fucking trash but Deimos wasn't about to let him and end up getting treated like it.

And he wasn't Deimos' type besides: too big and hard and mean-looking; too much of a risk. Deimos liked them softer than that--soft and sweet-looking like Abel, with pink lips and skinny wrists and cute little noses. Only Abel was off-limits to him and Phobos wasn't, was right here and under him if only he'd shut his mouth every once in a while, stop being so fucking toxic.

Phobos' hands were on his face then, gentle, pushing through his hair. "I'm sorry," he murmured, twice, like he always did when it was too fucking late for sorry, and Deimos didn't want to hear any of it. "You're not a slut," he went on, sniffling. "I mean you _are_ , but I... I don't care." Deimos would have laughed at the half-assed, backhanded apology if it wasn't so sincere, and the best he'd ever wring out of Phobos anyway.

"Wait," Phobos begged when Deimos made to get off of him, looping his arms around Deimos' neck and pulling him down, planting a sloppy, wet, bloody kiss on his mouth.

Deimos froze, considered hitting him again for this, really hurting him this time, but ultimately let him, kissed him back even, their teeth clacking together as Phobos' fingers tangled painfully in his hair. Phobos' tongue clumsily stroked his as he smeared snot and blood and spit all over them, and it was the least sexy kiss Deimos had ever had, even if there was something about it that still appealed to him, something about Phobos and all his venom and hatred and brokenness that still appealed to him.

He let Phobos roll him onto his back too, let him press awkwardly-placed, messy kisses to his neck and chest; didn't balk either when Phobos pushed his legs apart and pulled his underwear down, exposing him completely.

It was a mistake and he knew it, neither of them who the other really wanted, but Deimos was too weak to say no, not when he wanted it too; had wanted it ever since that first night when Phobos had slipped into bed beside him. Wanting it even when he shouldn't, a slut just like Phobos had said.

Phobos shuddered like he'd never been touched when Deimos wrapped a hand around his cock to slick him, had to wonder if that was the truth when he was forced to lead him every step of the way: pulling his knees up and guiding Phobos' cock into him, like Phobos had no idea what the fuck he was doing. He bit down on his tongue to keep from crying out in pain when Phobos' shoved into him without letting him get used to it first, breathing warm and heavy in Deimos' ear, wet cheek pressed hotly to his as he jerked his hips too fast.

It didn't take long, four or five sharp thrusts and he was coming, his body shuddering as he collapsed on top of Deimos, face buried in his neck. Deimos didn't shove him away in disgust even if he knew it was the smart thing to do, didn't want to move either; instead just put his arms around the sobbing mess in the ruined uniform and pressed his cheek to Phobos' soft hair.

"I don't hate you, Deimos," Phobos said after a while, his voice raw, eyelashes fluttering against Deimos' skin. 

Deimos would have said _I know_ if his throat wasn't too battered to speak another word. Instead he let Phobos stay right where he was, held him there until he wore himself out and finally gave himself over to exhaustion. 


End file.
